


The Girl with the Dragon's Scales

by LustOnMyFingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Mistaken Identity, Much to my own chagrin, No Smut, Once you read it you'll see why it didn't work, Prologue is in first person but the rest of the fic is not, Romantic Comedy, Some details about tertiary characters are left vague because they're not important, Viserys is king, and he's trying his best, fairytale, family curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-27 09:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20945885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/pseuds/LustOnMyFingers
Summary: Safely hidden away in the Red Keep, Daenerys meets a string of suitors in her brother's futile attempt to find the elusive 'prince that was promised' to break the family curse. One such suitor after her impressive dowry, Joffrey Baratheon, is so horrified when her disfigurement is revealed that he runs screaming from the castle. Ordered to help redeem his nephew's reputation, Tyrion Lannister hires the down-and-out heir to Winterfell, Jon Snow, to help lure the dragon out and prove, once and for all, that she exists. The plan goes awry, however, when the pair begin to develop feelings for one another.





	1. What Do You Play?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ValDeCastille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValDeCastille/gifts).

> **Notes:** This story is based on the movie [Penelope](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0472160/). Because it's a lighthearted grown-up fairytale, this canon-style Westeros is a bit different to make the story work. Westeros is more or less peaceful, there was never any rebellion (R+L were still a thing, though), so no houses are mortal enemies.
> 
> Written for the effervescent [ValDeCastille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValDeCastille), originally for a Jonerys event but it got too long and got set on the shelf to collect dust until her fast approaching nameday kicked me back into gear. Happy nameday, Val! Hope you like this almost as much as the movie! ♥ (Sorry this took me ages to finish. Blame the post-GoT collective mental breakdown, lol)
> 
> Endless thanks to [TheScarletGarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletGarden) for the beta ♥
> 
> **Warning:** Sorry, no smut this time, guys.

* * *

** _. . ._ **

** _| Prologue |_ **

** _. . ._ **

_ A curse was put on the Targaryen family after my great, great, great, great grandfather Aegon's rule—which was, arguably, the worst in Targaryen history. Offending not only the gods with his gluttonous and lustful ways, he made the mistake of offending a woods witch—whose daughter he dishonored, leaving her fat with child. When the poor girl threw herself from a cliff in grief, the witch came to the Red Keep in the night, determined to give these 'noble-bloods' a taste of their own medicine. As legend has it, she scattered about dragon bones and commanded that, _

_ "Amidst smoke and salt, dragons will be born again unto the world. Only when the prince that was promised claims the dragon's daughter as his own, 'till death do they part, will the curse be broken!" _

_ For generations, no one knew what the witch's curse meant until one stormy night on Dragonstone when I came howling into the world. The winds smashed the fleet outside to kindling, lightning setting the scraps of wood aflame. The smell of smoke still brings tears to my brother's eyes whenever he recalls the moment they placed me in our ailing mother's arms. _

  
  


** _. . ._ **

** _|Daenerys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

The library had once been the place Daenerys would go to escape reality. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, each packed with books that offered a much-needed glimpse into a world so different from her own—which consisted of little more than a few rooms within a tower she was forbidden from leaving. For her _ own _good, of course.

Though, ever since her brother had installed dark silk curtains that spanned the length of the library, dividing it in two—it became the place she dreaded setting foot in most. The place she became little more than a mummer, hoping to please her family by finally finding her 'prince'.

"Daenerys. Dear, sweet Daenerys..."

"Mmm-hmm," she absentmindedly hummed, picking the petals from a dying winter rose.

He stalked just beyond the veil, blathering on as he undoubtedly tried to discern something more from her obscured outline. _ You have a woman's body now_, her brother had insisted. _ Let them see_.

And so she stood before potential suitor Joffrey Baratheon, a blackened silhouette of what at least _ appeared _to be a normal girl. Though in truth, she was anything but.

"I'd given up all hope of ever finding a lady who truly understands me. I had given up all hope that is... until I met you."

It was the sort of speech she'd heard time and again. Nothing ever came of it but disappointment, and yet she couldn't snuff that small flicker of hope as she listened.

"Like you, I felt imprisoned most of my life."

Abandoning his endeavor to glimpse a peek at her accursed face, Joffrey wandered toward the balcony, the sunlight spilling over his features and, _ instead_, granting Daenerys a peek of his. He was younger than her, that much was certain. Fiery green eyes and a crown of golden hair—every bit as Lannister as the garish brocade he wore.

"By what?" she scoffed. "Your good name and good looks?"

"Yes, _ exactly _!"

Thankful he couldn't see that she rolled her eyes, she watched curiously as he stomped gracelessly toward the curtain. The guard stationed near the doorway stepped forward, the clinking of his chainmail enough to remind the young lord to mind his boundaries.

"No one ever seems able to see past that," he waved his hands enthusiastically. "No one."

_ Is he joking? _she wondered, feeling as though he was as much a mummer as she.

"And Daenerys, _ sweetling_. Curse or no curse, if I am more than my name and my face, surely you are more than yours."

The more he spoke, the more certain she felt that the words were not his own. Where had he gotten them from? Surely not his father, the notorious and promiscuous drunkard—a man she surmised hadn't been much different from her own ancestor, Aegon the Unworthy, the one responsible for getting a curse placed upon the Targaryen family. Perhaps it was Joffrey's mother who planted such fancy words in his head—but why would a young lord with Lannister blood be so desperate for her dowry, anyway?

"Let me in," he insisted, his voice but a whisper. "Daenerys, let me in."

For a moment she thought to chide him. _ Be careful what you wish for_. Instead, suspicion overtook her, his pretty words drowning in a current of silk as she yanked the curtains open.

"My lord," she flatly greeted, watching his face contort as he took in her... _ disfigurement_.

He raised his hand to point at her, his princely smile twisted in horror.

"_What...? _"

Backing away as if cornered by a monster, Joffrey at least waited until he hit the hallway before bounding down the stairs.

"_Help me! _" his scream echoed throughout the stairwell.

Though her personal guard, Ser Barristan, quickly pursued the boy, it was of little use. Daenerys sighed, standing just short of the balcony as she took in the sight she'd seen a dozen times over. They always ran. Just as she suspected, Joffrey was no different. Deftly, he made his way through the castle gates and into the streets of King's Landing, his screams of terror growing fainter.

"She's a dragon! A killer dragon! _ Somebody help! _"

On cue, another echo resonated in the hallway—the familiar sound of her brother stomping his way up the stairs to interrogate her.

"Why, Daenerys? _ Why?! _"

"I'm not the one who ran, _ Your Grace_," she reminded him, watching as the golden Baratheon boy finally disappeared over the horizon—her old, faithful guard still chasing after him.

"Well, of course they _run_, sweet sister, when you _spring _yourself at them!" her brother huffed. "Do you think I showed Arianne my mole before we were betrothed? No Dany, _no_. I had the good sense to wait until _after _we were married!"

"I didn't show him my _ mole_, Viserys. I showed him my _ face_."

When she spun, he cringed at the sight of her—as if he hadn't seen it each day since she was born. The family curse manifested in the form of red dragon scales covering the right side of her face—complete with small spikes jutting out along her brow and curving around her cheekbone. The disfigurement rendered her so unsightly that even her brother had trouble looking upon her. All these years later, it still stung each time he flinched. Daenerys couldn't help but frown.

"Oh, sweetling," the king softened, wrapping his arms around her. "He really liked you."

"No, Vis. He didn't."

"He didn't like your _ scales_, that's what he didn't like! _ You _are not your scales."

"But they _ are _my scales."

"_No! _ They're your great, great, great, great grandfather's scales. _ He _ did this to you... to us." Viserys pulled back, shaking her as if doing so might help lodge the information inside her head, that she might never question it again. "You are not your scales. You are not _ you_. You're... somebody else inside just waiting to be freed."

Over the years, Daenerys had been constantly reminded that she was not the only victim of the curse—that no one suffered more than her brother. Ever since the pair had lost both parents and an older brother, Viserys was left to care for her—for a girl with a face impossible to love.

At first, her brother hadn't put much stock in the curse. At least not until he'd squandered a hefty portion of the family fortune first on maesters and healers... and then on witches and shadowbinders. Even alchemists were sent for—but it turns out that not even fire can _ hurt _a dragon, let alone burn away its scales.

Unsure what to do with his sister, he relegated her to an unassuming library tower within the Red Keep—her chamber, an attic hidden behind a false bookshelf. The king kept her locked away and out of sight for fear that others might mistake the curse for greyscale, or perhaps because her face alone might make a mockery of what remained of the Targaryen family. Of his true motive, she could never be certain.

And so, as her guardian, it was up to Viserys to help shape Daenerys into a suitable bride before finding the elusive, noble-blooded '_prince that was promised _'—so that she could finally be free.

Or perhaps, so that he could finally be free of her.

  
  


** _. . ._ **

** _|Tyrion|_ **

** _. . ._ **

The minutes grew stale as Tyrion sat in his father's solar, enduring the fiery glare of his sister, Cersei.

"_Again_, you have turned the Lannister name into a laughing stock."

As his father spoke, the dwarf's gaze hung on his nephew, who was much too large to be curled in his mother's lap, milking every last drop of her sympathy.

Tywin Lannister finally turned, sharing in his daughter's glare. It was then Tyrion knew he hadn't been referring to Joffrey and his absurd outbursts that had since spread through town like wildfire—or perhaps, _ dragonfire_.

"_Me? _ " he spat incredulously. "Funny, isn't it? Since I can't _ quite _ recall running about town screaming _ my _lungs out about a dragon-faced girl."

"You're the harker, aren't you?"

"Herald," Tyrion corrected.

"Harker, herald... no difference, really. Certainly not when you spread lies about our family through the streets."

"_Lies? _ Joffrey ran around for upwards of an hour raving mad and shouting for help as if some monster was hot on his trail," Tyrion huffed. "And I don't mean to spoil it for you, _ Father_, but there was no monster. When the smallfolk came to me for answers, what was I supposed to do? To say? The boy is seeing things that aren't there."

"I want her _ arrested_," Cersei demanded.

"Who, exactly?"

"_The dragon! _" she shouted, prompting a pitiful whimper from the teen-aged boy cradled in her arms.

"She was covered in scales and spikes!" he whined.

"Let's say this dragon girl is real. On what grounds would you even have her arrested, Cersei? If simply being ugly were a crime, half the people in King's Landing would be put on trial."

Tywin cleared his throat in an effort to disguise the chuckle that slipped from his grandson, whose charade had quickly faltered. Before Tyrion could so much as roll his eyes, his lord father continued the interrogation.

"Are you working for them?"

"For who?"

"The Targaryens."

"You _ can't _be serious."

"I can't imagine how else you might benefit from convincing the smallfolk that your own nephew is suffering delusions of a dragon-faced girl?"

"I'm not mad!" Joffrey shouted. "She had fangs! She could breathe _ fire! _"

"There, there, sweetling. You're safe now," Cersei cooed, stroking his golden hair.

Hardly able to believe his ears, Tyrion couldn't help but laugh. "Are you not hearing the same rubbish I am, father?"

The room quieted as Tywin Lannister exhaled, finally making his way toward his son, pulling out a seat beside him. "Do you think I don't remember _ why _you wanted to become a herald in the first place?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Tyrion casted his gaze away.

"You sneaked into the Red Keep to investigate claims of a curse put on the Targaryens some generations ago—how did it go?"

Tyrion cleared his throat, "Amidst smoke and salt, dragons will be born again unto the world. Only when the prince that was promised claims the dragon's daughter as his own, 'till death do they part, will the curse be broken."

"Till death do they part," his father repeated. "Sounds rather like a _ marriage_, wouldn't you say?"

"So?"

"Your nephew went to the Red Keep to... _ audition _to be betrothed to a Princess Daenerys."

"_What? _" Tyrion demanded. "Is that true?"

"Yes, uncle," Joffrey blubbered from his mother's arms. "They kept her behind a curtain so I couldn't see—until she _ lunged _at me! Talons and all!"

So far as he'd heard, there _ had _once been a princess—one burned in a funerary pyre before the age of five.

"To make up for your blunder," Tywin continued, "I command that you help your nephew restore his good reputation."

"Father..."

"Together, you will find a way to prove that this dragon girl exists, absolving any accusations of madness from our family entirely. Do you understand?"

"And how exactly might I accomplish that?"

"You're always on about how clever you are, aren't you?"

"He is," Cersei hissed.

"Then prove it."

With that, Tywin rose to his feet and headed for the door. After Joffrey climbed down from his mother's lap, she followed their father out of the room, leaving her son behind to conspire with his uncle.

"You _ knew _about the curse," he accused.

"How was I supposed to know what it meant?"

Joffrey sighed. "Do you think you can sneak back inside the Red Keep, like when you were younger?"

"Oh, I... don't know about that. That hideous creature still gives me nightmares."

"So you _ did _see her!"

"Not the princess—her _ brother_. I caught a glimpse of a girl with what I assumed to be greyscale. The king, just a boy himself, chased me out. I had a bounty on my head for years. I might still have..." Tyrion shuddered, as if shaking the bad memory away. "What about you? You think you can get back in there?"

To his credit, Joffrey at least considered the scenario before firmly stating, "_No_."

"We're going to have to find someone who can. Someone who can earn her trust and lure her out."

"Well," Joffrey scratched his head. "They're looking for suitors."

"Perfect. Shouldn't be hard to find a desperate man willing to pretend to court a princess for some coin. Even a... _ scaly _one."

"They're only interested in noble-blooded suitors. It's part of the curse thing. Anyone descended from kings and lords or in possession of a castle. Though, most preferable of all are those with dragon's blood. And I've got at least a little."

"Of _ course _you do," Tyrion flatly said, well aware that the boy's father likely wasn't Robert Baratheon at all—but his mother's twin brother. "Wait—weren't you betrothed to that Stark girl?"

"Not anymore," he shrugged. "Besides, the princess has got an ample dowry."

"What need do _ you _have for a dowry?"

His nephew's gaze slipped to his hands, nervously fidgeting on the table. "I suppose I don't."

Before Tyrion could speculate whether there might be weight to the rumors regarding his family's goldmines drying up... he was suddenly struck with an idea.

"It's not likely we'll find any noble-bloods to help us," Joffrey cut in. "It's not like they need the money."

"No," he agreed. "But down-and-out heirs do."

"Happen to know where we could find one of those?"

"I just might."

  
  


** _. . ._ **

** _|Daenerys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

"Rise and shine!" Viserys had burst into her chamber, tugging the curtains open and letting the morning light pour into the room.

"Up, up, up!" he shouted, moving to her bedside to shake her shoulder.

"Vis?"

"Come on, Dany. Up! We've got to get you packed for Dragonstone."

"Excuse me? _ Dragonstone? _"

Squinting as her eyes adjusted, Daenerys spotted her good-sister standing in the doorway, arms folded uncomfortably, her expectant belly growing larger each day.

"What is the meaning of this, my love?" she asked.

The king stomped over to his queen, making a gods-awful attempt at whispering, "Harkers lining the streets all night and all morning shouting about the Baratheon boy going _ mad _?"

"Poor Joffrey. I had no idea," Arianne winked at Daenerys.

"Delusions of a hideous drag-" he paused, taking a momentary peek of his sister behind him. "-dragon-faced girl. You _ do _know who they're talking about?"

"I don't know, love," she shrugged. "Could be _ any _number of women in King's Landing."

"This is _ serious_," he reminded his wife. "Daenerys could be _ exposed _!"

Dany couldn't help but roll her eyes as the king and queen bickered.

"You know, I wouldn't mind relocating, either. Perhaps we could move the capital to Dorne? We're _ much _less judgmental there."

"Dorne is good!" Daenerys agreed. "I hear the Water Gardens are beautiful."

Just as Arianne began to nod in agreement, Viserys lifted a finger to point first to his wife, "_We're _ not moving, dear," he said, aiming the same finger at Daenerys, next. "My _ sister _is moving."

"Why Dragonstone? It's too dreary. How about Lys?"

"_Lys? _" he scoffed.

"You could practice your Valyrian," Arianne suggested.

"I _ could _practice my Valyrian! Rytsas! Iksan Daenerys."

Viserys went pale at the mere thought of it. Throwing his hands into the air, he declared, "Never mind. I overreacted. No one is moving! Everyone stays right here."

Daenerys and her good-sister shared a look of confusion at the king's outburst, both women following after him as he trudged down the narrow staircase that led into the library.

"Melisandre!"

"Your Grace," the red woman stood from her seat to bow.

"Please tell me you've made some progress on finding our promised prince?"

The mysterious shadowbinder her brother had hired to 'crack the curse' suddenly fanned several flattened scrolls out over her desk.

"Worry not, Your Grace, there are many viable suitors, yet. First, there's Loras Ty-"

"Good," he interrupted. "Who else?"

"Ramsay-"

"Great."

"Garth-"

"Fine."

"..._the Painter _?"

"_Marvelous_, who else?"

Just as the woman parted her red lips to speak, Viserys interrupted again. "Actually, let's talk about the dowry. I think we should double it."

Daenerys folded her arms. "If they can't stand the sight of me now, what makes you think they'll be able to for double?"

"Oh, now, with _ that _attitude..."

"Yes. It's my _ attitude_, brother."

Feeling fed up at the prospect of meeting, who exactly, Loras, Ramsay, and Garth?—Daenerys restlessly paced the library, absently listening as the red woman conspired with the king and queen about her fate. It didn't matter who they picked out, she knew, as in the end, they all accepted payment in exchange for a potion to wipe all memory of her face—as if she had never existed at all. _ Unless they escaped, too_, she considered. _ Like Joffrey... _

Her pacing eventually led her to a decorative mirror hanging just above a bookcase. It wasn't often she looked at herself, though she never quite hated what she saw reflected. The girl in the mirror seemed a far-cry from hideous—but the dozens of men who looked upon her face and ran screaming from the library confirmed that, despite how she felt, she was, in fact, a _ monster_.

Daenerys held her palm up, covering the right side of her face, obscuring the scales as best she could. For a moment, she almost felt... _ pretty_.

"Oh, sweetling..." Viserys looked up, catching her in the act.

"I know," she sighed. "It's not my face. It's my great, great, great, great grandfather's face. And he's not me, and I'm not him and... I'm not me."

"And don't you forget it!"

  
  


** _. . ._ **

** _|Jon|_ **

** _. . ._ **

  


From Flea Bottom, the Red keep hadn't appeared nearly as monstrous as it did when Jon stood just outside it, searching the crowd for the dwarf that had recently approached him with a peculiar offer.

There was a slim chance the plan would unfold as _ either _ party desired—but it was a risk he couldn't afford to ignore. After all, winter was coming and after tragedy struck the Stark family, they had dwindled down to just two girls, two boys, and their bastard brother. His sister Sansa had insisted on staying behind, as after all— _ There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_. Keeping his eldest sister company were their crippled brother Bran and youngest brother Rickon, neither of whom Jon nor Arya could suitably look after in the chaos of the capital, anyway.

"You're late," Tyrion accused. "Did you have to gamble all night?"

"Aye. I still had coin," Jon shrugged. "So, what's the plan?"

"We need you to lure her out on that balcony just there," Joffrey pointed toward the tower. "The... dragon girl."

"_Right_. The dragon girl."

"I don't need you to believe me," Joffrey scowled. "You'll see her soon enough."

"That's all, then? Just... lure her out onto the balcony?"

"Keep her out there as long as you can, we'll drum up interest on the ground and hopefully garner enough witnesses to prove my nephew here has not lost his mind."

Jon gave the boy a sidelong glare, still rather certain he was, in fact, mad.

"Any tips, Joffrey?" the boy's uncle asked.

"She seems to like pretty words."

"Well, I'm no bleedin' _ poet_," Jon insisted.

"No, certainly not," Tyrion agreed. "But you are heir to an ancient castle and Stark blood runs through your veins. That there is a great start, wouldn't you say?"

The dwarf reached up, clapping Jon on the back before he began his march up to the keep. He and his nephew stayed behind, hiding inconspicuously beneath a storefront canopy.

Just inside the library tower, there was a small gathering of young men, dressed to the nines, being escorted upstairs. Jon looked down at his own drab, boiled leather ensemble before retrieving Tyrion's letter, needing to see the number he was offered once more before summoning the courage to continue with this mummer's farce.

"And you are?" A woman's voice startled him, causing him to drop the implicating document.

"Shit!"

"_Pardon? _"

Jon had no doubt offended the strange woman draped in red, but made an utter ass of himself in the process.

"Shit," he clarified, hastily stuffing the scroll back into his pocket. "_Seven hells! _ I meant... Snow!"

"Snow?" She wiggled her nose—though he couldn't tell whether it was at his clumsiness or his bastard name.

"Jon Snow. Heir to Winterfell," he lied. "My father was the late Lord Eddard Stark."

"Of course," she smiled politely. "Right this way."

He followed the woman up a spiral staircase and through an impeccably decorated hallway.

"You will wait in the room to the right at the end. Just there," she pointed to an open set of doors.

Jon nodded, slowly making his way to the room wherein he could already hear the chatter from the dozen or so men he'd seen upon arriving. Conversation halted as he entered, clearly sticking out like a sore thumb amidst actual lords and heirs.

Straightening out his doublet, Jon stood tall despite the hushed mocking from the others. That is, until he noticed Tyrion's letter had somehow fallen from his pocket, making its way onto the floor a second time.

"_Shit_," he whispered again, bending to retrieve it just as a gust of wind from the open balcony carried it under a nearby sofa. Jon dropped to his knees, feeling blindly around for the letter he wished he had burned in the hearth.

"Good day, my lords. I'm Daenerys! And you must be...?"

Jon had heard the voice, but he couldn't see anything over the rush of men headed straight for the door—some even leapt over his hunched body in a desperate bid to escape.

"Late for tea?" she added, muffled by the shouting that echoed throughout the hallway.

Once the chaos died down, Jon rose to his feet, surprised to see a completely empty room. No lords, no red woman, and _ certainly _no hideous dragon-faced girl. He was completely alone and utterly unsure how, exactly, to proceed with his plan.

  
  


** _. . ._ **

** _|Daenerys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

"How _ could _you?!"

"Just weeding out the unlikelies, _ dear brother_."

"So you thought you'd just sow dra-" Viserys stopped himself short.

"_Sow dragon's teeth? _ " Daenerys finished his accusation, running a finger along the ridge of her spikes. "No, _ dear brother_, that's already been done for me!"

The girl huffed, storming over to her table, where a small display of lemon cakes sat—their intended purpose to cheer her up each time a potential suitor inevitably ran from her. She shoved three into her mouth at once as her brother yanked the plate from her hands, "Stop it, Dany!"

The remaining cakes slipped from the plate and splattered to the ground.

"That was the last of the lemon cakes!" With a shrill cry, she had smattered her brother's crimson silk tunic with bits of yellow pastry. "I'm going to the market for more!"

"Oh, no you're not!" Viserys grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. "If you want more lemon cakes, I'll send for them."

"Pick me up some Dornish red while you're out, would you, Dany?" Arianne asked, wandering into Dany's chamber and plopping onto her bed.

"Dany, _ please_. Just _ one _man. One man!"

"And he'll run too! They always run! Why can't you accept that? For _ years _ now, I've been watching them run. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? _ Do you?!_"

As emotionally stunted as her brother might've been, her plea had finally gotten through. Defeated, Viserys dropped his voice to a whisper, his chin trembling, "Dany, we can't just quit."

"Yes, we can," she insisted. "No matter how much I want to believe there's one man who won't run away, _ one _man who..."

"Dany!" Melisandre shouted from the bottom of the steps leading up to her room. "There's one left. He didn't run."

"Oh, sweet Mother of all things merciful!" Viserys cried.

"...did he see me?"

"He must have—he was there!" Arianne chimed.

"Who is it?"

"_Who cares? _Stop stalling, Dany," Viserys insisted. "Just go!"

"I can't..."

"Go!" the three shouted together. "_Go! _"

So dizzy she felt almost weightless, Daenerys rushed down the small flight of stairs and through the secret bookcase until she was back behind that dreaded silk curtain. Steadying her breath, she tiptoed across the rug, staying as quiet as she could manage as she observed him—the one who didn't run.

He was dressed head to toe in leather, which creaked with his every step. The only other discernible feature so far was his hair—dark, wild, and unruly curls. Curiously, she watched as he ran a finger along the edge of each book on the shelf before him, taking a quick glance around before swiping one and tucking it into his doublet.

"Are you a fan of Mushroom?"

He jumped, turning to face her. "Who?"

"The book you've got stuffed up your sleeve."

"You caught that, huh?" he exhaled. "Well... _ yes_. It's a great book."

She quirked a brow. "So you've read it?"

"Of course."

"Funny. I thought that was the only surviving copy."

"What I meant was... I had _ intended _to read it but could never get my hands on it," he lied. Poorly. When the girl said nothing in return, he finally came clean. "It looked valuable. I figured it might be worth somethin'."

"So you _ were _stealing it?"

"Aye. I was stealin' it."

Looking ashamed, he placed the book facedown on the nearest table.

"So, you're a fan of the money?"

Though her tone sounded accusatory, she actually felt _ relief_. If it was money he was after, then perhaps he might stick around long enough to actually marry her and receive the dowry. This boy just might be the way out of the nightmare that was her life.

"I'm a _ big _fan of the money," he confirmed. "Although, it doesn't much care for me."

"Maybe you and the money weren't meant to be?"

"I wouldn't go that far," he laughed, tacking on a gripe under his breath, "_Curse _me."

"There are roughly two hundred and eighty valuable books in this library. Of those, at least two hundred are worth around five thousand dragons. A dozen or so are worth over ten thousand," she explained. "And I'm afraid there's only one book that wouldn't even yield a single silver stag."

"Only one, huh?" he asked, quirking a brow as he retrieved the book again.

"A little testimony written by a little court jester that never amounted to anything more than a lackwit."

Briefly, he flipped through the pages. "You don't say? Not even a _ single _silver stag?"

"I'm afraid not. And I'm afraid that it's time for-"

"But it's your favorite just the same," he interrupted.

"What?"

"I said, it's your favorite just the same."

"I heard you," she snapped, feeling almost naked as his dark eyes roamed up and down her silhouette before discarding the book a second time. "Top shelf, third from the left. The Jade Compendium. Written in original Valyrian script—rare, and in near perfect condition. Might just fetch you the equivalent of a champion's purse. But wait until I'm gone so I can distract the others."

"Sorry?"

After tiptoeing toward her chamber door, Daenerys opened the faux bookshelf and closed it. She remained motionless beside it, shielded by the darkened half of the room.

"Daenerys?"

Thinking her absent, he kept an eye on the curtain as he plucked the suggested book from the shelf. Too big to fit up his sleeve, he opted to slip it under his doublet. Unsurprisingly, he made his way through the doors.

Daenerys jumped when a mere second later, he leapt back into view, slapping the doorframe and shouting, "Got you!"

His smile—what she could see through the silks, anyway—was irritatingly smug and worse yet, _ charming_. He chuckled nervously, clearly having expected a yelp or some such reaction from the girl behind the curtain.

"No?" he sighed. Stepping closer, his eyes narrowed as he tried to discern whether or not she was really there, as he suspected. "Daenerys?"

Because Ser Barristan was busy chasing who knows _ how _many screaming men through the city, this boy came as close to the curtain as he liked. Daenerys feared for a moment he might just cross through the cloth boundary.

Instead, he turned toward the door, dropping the Jade Compendium on the table right beside her favorite book before leaving.

"Will you be back tomorrow?" she shouted, just as he reached the hallway.

"I knew it! I _ knew _you were there," he laughed. "Yes, I will be. Absolutely."

From just inside the balcony she watched him make his way out and into the streets below. Only this time, he wasn't running. Something about this one felt... different. For the first time, she felt _ hope_.

Daenerys picked up The Testimony of Mushroom before plopping down on the sofa. Upon opening the cover, her smile faded.

"Sweetling?" Arianne asked after pushing her way through the curtain to join her good-sister. "What's wrong?"

"I thought he just _ knew_," she sighed. "But it says it right here."

The queen took a seat beside her, running a finger over the crooked, juvenile print inside the cover:

_ Daenerys ♥ Mushroom _

"Still," she sweetly reminded Dany. "Of the thousand books that _ aren't _your favorite, Jon chose the one that is."

  
  


** _. . ._ **

** _|Jon|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Much to the chagrin of both Tyrion and Joffrey, not only had Jon neglected to reveal Daenerys to the residents of King's Landing the day prior, he had shown up late. Again.

It was almost a blessing that he'd spent most of the night dicing, else he might have been nervous as he waited for Daenerys to show. The longer he sat on the sofa, the more trouble Jon had keeping his eyes open.

"All right," he said, jumping onto his feet and stomping himself awake.

He explored the library again to keep himself moving, taking note of the strange artifacts that adorned a few of the shelves—a silver chalice, a ruby-encrusted horn, a small animal skull he couldn't quite identify. Jon then happened upon what looked to be a small flute in the shape of a dragon, sitting atop a stack of books. Of all the instruments on display around the room, it was the most decorative.

Upon picking it up, he examined its scaly body, noting the holes between its spikes. He brought its mouth to his and blew, doing his best attempt at a song as he moved his fingers along its back.

"Do you play?"

"_Shit_," Jon mumbled, momentarily losing his footing while startled, but careful to keep the dragon in his grasp.

"Do you play?" the disembodied voice repeated as the outline of a girl stepped forward, careful to stay hidden by the veil of silk between them.

"The dragon?" he laughed. "No, though I always meant to pick it up."

"But you _ do _play something."

Jon raised an eyebrow at that, letting his eyes run over her every curve. Based on nothing more than her shape, he couldn't imagine there was anything monstrous about her. Worse, they almost seemed to have a natural pull toward one another. He'd managed to pick her favorite book from over a thousand others, and she had managed to guess that he played, well, _ something_.

These were dangerous thoughts, though. While her dowry might be impressive—assuming the curse was real, he was rather ill-equipped to break it, and further, Jon wasn't keen on inflicting his bastardy on anyone—not even a 'hideous monster'.

"What do you play?" she asked.

He moved closer to her silhouette.

"Guess."

The featureless girl paced back and forth for just a moment before coming to a halt before a thankfully small tabor.

"Try the drum."

Grinning, Jon lifted the instrument by its rope, slinging it over his shoulder. After positioning it under his arm, he flattened his palms and drummed an uneven rhythm.

"My featherbed is deep and soft," he sang, each beat accentuating his purposely off-key singing. Just as intended, she began chuckling at his efforts. "And there I'll lay you down. I'll dress you all in violet silk, and on your head a crown..."

"I was wrong! It's not the drums..."

"No?"

"No more!" she pleaded.

Jon laughed too, carefully setting the drum back where he found it. When he lifted his gaze, he saw Daenerys had moved a few feet away, standing in front of the next target. _ Warmer_, he thought.

"Lute, lute!" she chanted.

Grabbing the neck, Jon carried the instrument to the sofa. After taking a seat, he attempted to balance the lute on his knee, strumming a frightful tune as he flatly continued his song, "For you shall be my lady love and I shall be your lord. I'll always keep you warm and safe..."

"That is _ quite _enough," Daenerys laughed. 

He smiled along, ignoring her plea and kept singing, "And guard you with my sword."

"_Enough! _" she shouted. "Stop!"

Before Jon could even set down the lute, Daenerys had marched to a third instrument.

"Play the fiddle," she instructed. "It's _ got _to be the fiddle."

Doing his best to hold his composure, Jon pursed his lips to keep from laughing as he lifted the fiddle just under his chin. The sound that came from the strings as he dragged the bow across them could've easily been mistaken for a cat in heat, but he carried on, chuckling through his lines, "And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree..."

"I don't think that's how you play the fiddle..."

"No?" he paused just long enough to ask before carrying on, off-pitch. "She spun away and said to him, _ no featherbed for me! _"

"Stop," she chuckled. "Please stop. _ Stop! _"

Feeling pleased with his efforts, Jon carefully placed the fiddle back in its display, praying to the gods that his awful playing hadn't ruined the strings.

"Oh, my. That... that sounded _ terrible _."

"And _ you _sound rather ungrateful," he countered with a cheeky grin, making his way back to the sofa.

"Wait! Don't sit down," she commanded. "I'm not done guessing!"

Rather than take his seat, Jon moved closer to the shadow behind the curtain.

  
"Enough about me. What do you play?"

  
  


** _. . ._ **

** _|Daenerys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

After a slight rearrangement of the library, Daenerys had painstakingly instructed Jon as he set up a game of cyvasse on the table just between them. After only a few moves, it was clear the boy had never played before. Though he wasn't particularly skilled at the game, it was nice to play with someone other than Ser Barristan or Arianne.

Despite Daenerys having knocked more than half his pieces from the board, conversation easily flowed.

"All right," he said, readying his next question. "When you do finally get out of here, what's the first thing you do?"

"Ride a horse," she spat. "In fact, I always wanted to be a stableboy."

Jon chuckled, "A stable..._ boy _?"

"Is that funny?"

"No, I suppose I imagined you as more of a shadowbinder."

"A shadowbinder? Of all things?"

"Seein' as you're an... _ actual _shadow."

"_Ha, ha_," she rolled her eyes. "It's your move, by the way."

"All right, let's see..."

Jon knocked an onyx elephant out of the way with his dragon piece, leaving the alabaster king defenseless.

"You _ really _don't want to do that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll kill him."

"What if I asked you not to?"

"I'd still kill him," she declared. "You're practically begging me to."

Briefly, Jon studied the configuration of the black and white cyvasse pieces before him, trying to identify a way out of his king's doomed fate. There wasn't one. And so, he resorted to distraction. 

"So, beer," he started. "You've never had a beer?"

"I've had beer."

"From a brewhouse?"

"Well no, not from a brewhouse."

"Then you've _ never _had a beer."

"Hey! Your elephant can't do that!" she protested as Jon knocked the black dragon out of the way.

"Why not? Doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"Can _ you _imagine an elephant taking down a dragon?"

Clearly frustrated with the game, Jon leaned in, "How about you and me head down to the Tuffleberry brewhouse right now?"

"Tuffleberry?"

"Best autumn ale south of the Neck," he insisted. "Maybe the _ only _autumn ale south of the Neck, come to think of it…"

Sighing, she slipped into a sudden melancholy as she recalled Ser Barristan's vivid tales of his adventures with her late brother. Stories featuring Rhaegar had always been among the knight's favorites. And so, he'd recount them in great detail, right down to that particular northern ale that never failed to get them, as he called it, '_ horribly drunk _'.

"What do you say?" Jon asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"Thanks for the offer. Maybe another time."

"Daenerys, _ come on_," he pleaded. "You've got to get out of there sometime. What are you waitin' for?"

There was something a bit too aggressive—or perhaps desperate—in his tone. Something that made her shrivel in a way she was happy he couldn't see. Despite it, the energy in the room had changed.

Realizing his misstep, Jon pulled back, dropping his voice to nearly a whisper. "The truth is, you're... you're not missin' much."

"Really?" she relented. "The Tuffleberry sounds fun."

"All aside from that."

"And the market? I hear they sell lemon cakes right on the street."

"They do," he chuckled. "They're delicious, too."

Daenerys perked up. "And godswoods?"

"Winterfell's is especially beautiful," he bragged, a glint in his eye as he reminisced. "I used to spend hours in our godswood—sittin' on overgrown roots and writin' stupid love songs."

"Used to? You don't do that anymore? What are you doing instead?"

"_Well_," he grinned. "Beatin' you at cyvasse."

"I warned you I'd kill him."

Jon raised a hand to muss his shaggy hair, "Whatever happened to beginner's luck?"

"No such thing."

"Perhaps not until my dragon here has seen what you've done..."

"Once the king is dead the dragon is useless."

"What's that about?"

"Maybe she has nothing left to fight for," Dany wagered, a fresh pang of grief in her chest. "They shared a bond, you know?"

"Aye," he softly said, his dark eyes scanning her as if he could see straight through the silk. "I can see that."

She cleared her throat to break the tension. "My dragon to your king."

"You really askin' me to kill myself?"

Daenerys winced. _ He didn't mean it_, she reminded herself, grudgingly gritting her teeth.

"Fine. I'll do it," she insisted.

Without thinking, Daenerys slipped her hand through the curtain, taking the onyx dragon and knocking the white king from the board.

Lifting his hand, Jon intentionally brushed her fingers with his. It was the first touch in years that she'd received from someone other than her brother and good-sister. She should've yanked her arm away, but his touch felt so nice it melted away her sudden brush with grief. Further, she could almost feel it set her entire body alight...

"Your fingertips are... _ blue_."

The declaration was enough to jostle her from the momentary trance.

"Why are your fingertips blue?"

Her face burned with embarrassment, as if she'd been caught at something shameful. Shaken, Daenerys rose from her seat, rubbing her hands on her sleeves, trying to extinguish the sudden flame searing through her veins.

"Daenerys?"

Of the few rooms she was designated to, each one held a vase full of winter roses, as something about the color and scent had always soothed her. She plucked one from the water and walked over to the curtain, letting out a shaky breath before her hand split the silk a second time, holding the rose out to Jon in offering.

He took the flower from her as if it were fragile as glass, spinning it gently between his fingers.

"These always remind me of my father," he began, a solemn smile hanging on his lips. "They were his sister's—_my aunt's— _favorite flower."

"Were?"

"They might still be, I suppose," he said, running his fingers along the stem, letting the thorns prick his skin. "Went missin' the night before her wedding. There were rumors she was kidnapped, so Lord Stark set out to try and find her, even leavin' his pregnant wife alone at Winterfell."

"Was she ever found?"

"No. After her disappearance, my father was never the same. He was so broken up about her loss that he came back home a completely different man."

"Different how?"

"Well, with a baby boy in tow, for one. Prior to that, few would've believed The Honorable Eddard Stark could've fathered a bastard."

After a moment, she offered her condolences. "I'm sorry, Jon."

He simply shrugged.

Upset that the pair might've lost the thread of conversation, she blurted, "That story reminds me of my brother."

"The king?"

"No. The one who died before I was born."

"What happened?"

"Well, if you were to ask Viserys," she began, watching as Jon plucked the petals from the rose, "He would say that because Rhaegar had been born in grief, the shadow that hung over him all his days eventually weighed him down."

"_But_..."

"But if you were to ask _ Ser Barristan_..."

"Your guard?"

Dany shook her head, at least until she realized Jon couldn't see. "Yes. He was very close with my brother—and he seems certain that Rhaegar had no desire to take his own life."

"What changed?"

"His heart was broken," she quietly said. "No one knows what happened for _ certain_, but there were witnesses around Dorne who say they saw a silver-haired man throw himself into the sea."

As Jon picked the last of the petals from the rose, his brow suddenly furrowed.

"_Shit_."

"What?"

"I'm sorry about what I said back there—I... I didn't know."

"It's all right," she assured him.

After clenching his eyes shut, Jon hesitantly slipped his hand through the silk. Dany simply stared down at his blue-tipped, calloused fingers, unsure exactly what to do.

"I thought I might hold your hand," he said.

"Why are your eyes closed?"

He laughed, "Just felt like the right thing to do."

Grinning, Dany took his hand in hers, letting her eyes fall closed, too, as he softly stroked the inside of her palm with his thumb.

"Grief is a funny thing," she added, her nervousness eager to fill the silence hanging between them.

"In what way?"

"I've watched it consume my brother for years. But it's almost as if he mourns what could've been, rather than what he actually lost."

"How so?"

"He seems to think that had Rhaegar lived, I might've married his son, nipping the curse right in the bud."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "You mean your nephew?"

"It's not so strange," she laughed. "Not for Targaryens, in any case. For centuries, we've married brother to sister.

"Then why not Viserys?" he asked, almost defensive, his hand clenching in hers.

"I had been betrothed to Arianne Martell since we were young."

At the sound of her brother's sudden voice just behind him, Jon yanked his hand away, his expression utterly mortified.

"S-sorry, Your Grace," he mumbled, turning back to Daenerys. "I- I should get home."

With watchful eyes, the king stepped into the library alongside his hired shadowbinder, who shrugged apologetically at the abrupt intrusion, mouthing, _ I tried to stop him_.

Daenerys cringed as Jon bowed awkwardly before her brother in his retreat.

"Will you be back tomorrow?" she shouted after him.

He paused in the doorway, locking eyes with her despite the curtain between them. "Absolutely," he grinned.

Viserys cocked an eyebrow as he walked toward the hanging silks, pulling them apart to join his sister on the other side.

Once Jon's footsteps faded, she confronted the king, demanding, "Are you mad?!"

"_Pardon _?"

"For once, it was actually going well..."

"A little _ too _well."

Daenerys folded her arms. "Isn't that the entire point?"

The king shrugged. "Heir or not, the boy was still born on the wrong side of the blanket. I'll not have my sister dishonored right under my nose."

As if the insult to Jon hadn't stung enough, her brother had more or less confirmed she had no autonomy of her own. Without another word, Daenerys shot her brother an icy glare before opening the door to her chamber and slamming it right in his face.

  


** _. . ._ **

** _|Jon|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Something about that blue rose lingered in his mind all throughout the night, stripping him of his will to gamble and replacing it with a strange melody in his head—the likes of which he hadn't heard in years. As a result, while on his way to the Red Keep that afternoon, Jon happened upon the perfect gift for Daenerys at the market, stuffing it just inside his doublet to surprise her with later, when the opportunity presented itself.

The Lannisters' patience was wearing thin, and Jon could feel it in the air as he approached the canopy under which they stood in wait. Even several feet away, he could hear the boy's whiny accusations.

"He's always late. Typical bastard behavior, isn't it?" Joffrey spat. "He's going for the dowry. I know it."

"I wish I could find a lady with a dowry," his uncle groaned.

"Give me a break," Jon greeted.

Joffrey turned to him, unabashed. "Why else is it taking so long? She revealed herself to me straight away."

He shrugged. "I guess she liked you more."

Joffrey's gaze narrowed. "Why settle for five thousand dragons when you could get ten times that, right? Maybe you're forgetting, Jon. I've seen her. She is _ grotesque _!"

"Shut him up," Jon warned Tyrion.

"I'm telling you she is un-kissable ugly! Nightmare ugly! _ Vomit _ug-"

Unwilling to listen to another word of it, Jon clapped his hand over Joffrey's mouth to stop him from prattling any further.

"Listen to me, you little snake. I know your kind. Spoiled rotten baby still sucklin' at his mother's t-" Right in the midst of his rant, he felt the swipe of a slimy tongue across his palm. "Seven hells! He _ licked _me!"

"Joffrey," Tyrion scolded.

"What?"

"Don't lick Jon!"

"Sorry..."

The dwarf cleared his throat to cut the tension. "You can't blame us for being a little suspicious."

"Fine. Find someone else, then."

"_Fine_," Joffrey countered. "Give us back the money."

The pair held each other's gaze, the golden-haired boy donning a smug expression that Jon had to stop himself from slapping away. He was trapped and he knew it. Already, he'd lost more than half of the money they'd given him. No matter how much the thought of it plagued him—Jon was left with no choice but to carry out the plan.

. . .

The girl's petite silhouette was just behind the curtain when Jon stepped into the library. Before he could so much as greet her, she announced, "I've got it."

"What, exactly, have you got?"

"Harp," she answered, sticking a blue-tipped finger through the curtain to point at the woodharp at the center of the room. "You play the harp. I bet my life on it."

"You really shouldn't bet a better," he warned.

Jon took a seat, leaning the small instrument against his shoulder after balancing it on his knees. He fanned his fingers across the strings before dragging his thumbs upward.

Hoping he'd found the right chord, he plucked the familiar tune, picking up the song he'd left off on the previous day. "She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me..."

When the hem of a violet gown pushed through the silk curtain just beyond the strings, Jon kept his gaze down, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. Engulfed in a fresh rush of nervousness, he stumbled through the song without even trying to keep up the act.

"I'll wear a gown of golden leaves and bind my hair with grass," his voice shook.

A pair of arms wrapped around him, masterfully plucking the same tune just above his hands, even lending her voice to the final verse as she sang alongside him, "But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass."

Though the song had finished, her skin lingered against his. Closing his eyes, he relished in her touch, in her scent—lemons and roses.

"Try tucking your finger in just after plucking a string," she suggested.

"Thank you, Dany," Jon shyly said, using the intimate moment to test a new endearment.

Finally opening his eyes, he turned to face her. On instinct Jon recoiled, nearly dropping the instrument.

Daenerys was at a loss for words—waving her hands about as if trying to pull an explanation out of the air. He had never seen anything quite like it. For a moment they simply stared at one another wordlessly, Jon still trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

After setting down the harp, he stood, determined to keep eye contact. A perfect match to her gown, she had the most beautiful violet eyes...

Jon reached out with the intention to touch her scales—to show her he wasn't afraid. But just as he lifted his hand, his surprise gift for her slipped out from underneath his doublet, startling them both.

"_Shit_," he cursed, the interruption breaking their gaze.

"I'm a monster!" Daenerys cried, running back behind the curtain.

"_No! _ " he shouted after her. "No, you're not! Dany! _ Please! _"

The only response had been the slamming of a door. 

Though Jon waited several moments, Daenerys never returned.

Picking up the slightly crushed garland of winter roses, he set it beside the harp on the sofa before making his way downstairs and out of her life.

  
  


** _. . ._ **

** _|Daenerys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

With her brother determined to _ mind her honor_, everyone had already been gathered and waiting upstairs when she came bursting into her chamber.

Viserys hesitantly approached, his voice sickeningly sweet. "Dany..."

"I told you!" she shouted. "I _ told _you he'd run!"

"No! _ You _ran. It was you this time!"

The girl paced her room, fighting the urge to pull her hair out in frustration. It had never hurt so badly before now, not even close.

"He... _ he..._" she sniffled, hardly able to see a thing through her tears. "He said _ 'shit'! _"

"So?!"

"He said 'shit' to me twice," Melisandre interjected, but Daenerys remained inconsolable.

"And then he... he just _ stood _ there. Staring at me! No one's ever just _ stood _there before."

"If you give the poor boy a chance to adjust-" Viserys began, giving Ser Barristan a quick double-take. "What are you doing?" he asked the guard. "You weren't supposed to let him leave!"

"Viserys?" Dany sniffled.

"Don't worry, dear. He couldn't have gone far."

As everyone quickly filtered out of her room, Daenerys walked down to the library to see if she could spot Jon outside from the balcony. To her surprise, what she saw, instead, was a head of golden hair glinting in the sunlight—it was the unmistakable spoiled brat Joffrey Baratheon standing next to a man half his size. And though she couldn't see him, Viserys had been shouting for her faithful kingsguard to arrest the lot of them. Seconds later, there was a loud crash followed by a sudden commotion downstairs.

"Daenerys!"

She ran toward the staircase, clutching onto the railing as she peered over it.

"Jon?"

There he was on the floor below, struggling, both arms held back by Ser Barristan.

"Dany! There's something I have to tell you!"

"Don't listen to him!" Viserys shouted. "Turns out he's working for the herald that forced me to bury you!"

"You said I was burned in a pyre?"

"That, too!" Her brother turned to Jon, "I hope they paid you well, because you just said good-bye to a fortune!"

"Wait!" Melisandre called. "He's still heir to Winterfell, Daenerys. He could still break the curse."

The revelation seemed promising enough to button her brother's mouth shut, and instead, he nodded his blessing. Step by step, she made her way downstairs, formulating as enticing an offer as she could manage. "Jon, I know that this face repulses you. I wouldn't dream of asking you to accept it."

"_No_," he began to shake his head.

"But it's not my face."

"No, _ Daenerys_," he protested further. If only he'd give her a chance to explain...

She continued on, determined. "The real me is inside here somewhere just waiting to get out. You can make that happen. Once the curse is broken, I'll be _ just _like anybody else."

His dark eyes locked on hers. "What if you're not? What if the curse isn't broken?" he asked. "What if... what if the curse can _ never _be broken?"

"Then I'll throw myself from the highest tower I can find. I promise. I _ promise _I will."

He grimaced, his voice cracking as he opened his mouth to speak. "Dany, _ don't_..."

"Marry me, Jon," she begged. "Marry me."

For a long moment, he held her gaze—eyes swimming with unshed tears, just like her own.

"I can't."

All at once, Daenerys felt the rush of a thousand heartbreaks.

"Get out."

The instant she commanded it, her guard began dragging the boy from the tower. Again, he called her name, but it was too late. Heaving as she wept, Dany collapsed right there on the staircase. She had come _ so _close to freedom.

"This is nothing we haven't been through before," her brother declared. "Dany, we can do it again. I will never give up, sweetling. _ Never_, Daenerys!"

And she knew with all her heart he had meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. Just realized I left you guys on another angsty cliffhanger... Any complaints can be redirected to [TheScarletGarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletGarden) (lol), who not only suggested I break this monster fic into two parts, but chose the break-off point. I will have the second part out shortly, it's complete but needs a little extra polish. Thank you for reading!


	2. The Way I Am

* * *

** _. . ._ **

** _|Viserys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

After the failed proposal, Daenerys had locked herself away and refused all company, too mortified to speak to another soul. Even after several hours, she had ignored his every knock and apology uttered at her door.

Dismayed, the king sulked in his study, though not alone. Across from him sat his devoted wife, and between them sat a pot of fresh nettle tea. Arianne watched his every move, big brown eyes full of concern. She cleared her throat, and reluctantly, he met her gaze.

"We have both always known there was no guarantee."

"I have done _ everything _in my power to-"

"Almost everything, my love," she corrected, pausing to sip her tea. "We have spent so much time preparing her for the day things would be different, that we've never prepared her for the day that they're not."

She was right. His wife was always right.

Just as he was about to ask for her advice on where they go from here, she freely offered it. "Perhaps we should stop all this matchmaking and... get her a kitten?"

"A _ kitten _ ?" His eyes narrowed. Perhaps she was _ not _always right, after all.

Arianne stretched across the table for a kiss, her swollen belly accidentally nudging a teacup in her retreat.

"Oh, no," she groaned as Viserys scrambled for his handkerchief, dabbing the spill from the surrounding parchment. "I hope that wasn't important."

Unsure, himself, the king unfolded the message, squinting at the words.

_ I'm writing to say that I love you and good-bye. _

Straight away, he recognized the penned script.

"It's my sister."

Promptly, the king stormed off to the tower where she resided, his wife trailing loyally behind him.

Just inside, he found Ser Barristan slumped against the wall, unconscious and snoring.

"What is the meaning of this?!" the king cried.

Arianne dashed up the stairs to check his sister's chamber while he shook the old knight in an effort to wake him. Next, he tried knocking his breastplate—to no avail.

"_Ser! _" the king shouted, this time slapping Barristan across the face, hard enough that he finally stirred.

"Y-your Grace," he mumbled.

"Where is my sister?!"

The old knight looked around, flabbergasted. "Is she... not ups-sstairs?"

Craning his neck to look up the stairs, Viserys spotted his queen. She shook her head solemnly, "She's not here."

Angry, he turned back to the kingsguard. "Are you _ drunk _, Selmy?"

"No, I... all I had wass t-tea..."

Before Viserys could even lift himself up, his wife rushed to a small end table at Barristan's post. She retrieved a small white teacup painted with winter roses—a cup Viserys had instantly recognized as his sister's. Arianne swirled the liquid around before taking a big whiff. "No alcohol," she determined. "But..."

"But what?"

"This tea is a bit cloudy."

"So?"

"She might've slipped him milk of the poppy."

The kingsguard shambled to his feet, rubbing his head a moment before taking stock of his person. "My coin purssh..."

"What?"

"Your sister has stolen his coin, love," Arianne concluded, dutifully helping her husband up as he cursed under his breath.

Stomping through the doorway, Viserys shook his fist and screamed into the fading night sky.

_ "Daeeeneeeerys!" _

** _. . ._ **

** _|Daenerys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Even as the weeks piled up, Daenerys still happened upon yet-undiscovered pockets of King's Landing—even around the twisty alleys of Flea Bottom, which had since become a home away from home. It was the place in which she could stretch her coin—or, _ Ser Barristan's _coin—the most.

After some exploring early in the afternoon, she finally discovered the Tuffleberry brewhouse, whose roasted meats and fresh baked bread seem to combat the otherwise inescapable stench of sewage in the streets. Unable to ward off neither her curiosity nor her thirst, Daenerys wandered inside, grabbing a seat.

The barkeep was a tall, burly boy with short-cropped dark hair and a kind face. He raised an eyebrow at Dany's unusual appearance, but made sure not to dwell on it.

"What'll it be, m'lady?"

"Autumn ale, please."

"Comin' right up."

His bright blue eyes watched curiously as she sipped the unexpectedly strong ale—at least until the door swung open and an irritated, mud-covered girl stormed through, clearly in a huff.

"Arry!" His attention shifted. "What brings you in 'ere?"

"Do you _ really _want to know or are you just asking?"

"I'm just askin'," he teased, or so his suddenly cheeky grin would imply.

Taking a seat not far from Daenerys, the girl took a long drag of air before offloading. "I'm out walking with my wolf and this wagon comes out of nowhere and nearly hits me. I go flying. Nymeria loses it. I'm lying in the street and he stands over me saying, _ 'Sorry, I didn't see!' _ How can he not see me? I'm beside a gods-damned _ direwolf! _ You can see me," she declared to the barkeep before turning to Daenerys, "And _ you _can see me, right?"

With a mouth full of ale, all Daenerys could do was furiously nod in agreement.

"_See? _Even Eyepatch here can see me!"

"You ought to have sicced Nymeria on 'im."

"Eh," she shrugged, "My brother would've killed me."

"I'd like to see 'im try," the boy winked before moving behind the bar to pour another ale.

"I'm sure you would."

"The usual," he said, setting the foamy drink in front of the frazzled girl. "On the house."

"Thanks, Gendry. You're a keeper."

The simple remark fed the boy's grin, and it grew nearly twice in size as he carried on, tending to the other patrons.

"So, what is it?" she turned toward Dany, lowering her voice. "Are you hiding from the gold cloaks? No no, that's not it. Escaping a bad betrothal?"

"Mmm, _ baaad _betrothal."

"My sister had one of those, too. Luckily, he found some other girl with a better dowry and left her in the dust."

"What about you?"

"Me?" she belly-laughed as if it'd been the funniest joke she'd ever heard. "Oh, no. Not until all seven hells freeze over."

"Why not?"

"I hate men."

The comment caught the attention of the eavesdropping barkeep, whose grin quickly turned to a scowl.

The girl cleared her throat. "What I mean is... it's not like I'm the type of lady that lords would line up to get betrothed to. Who looks at me and thinks _ 'lady in a silk dress' _? Unless he's mad, of course."

"Mmm," Daenerys nodded. "We have that in common."

"My sister always called me horseface," she chuckled bitterly. "She and her friends would even neigh at me."

"Then they must be the mad oness! You don't look like a horse, or _ any _amin...animal. Mythical, or oth-therwise!" Dany hiccuped.

"I mean, I'm no _ Daenerys _, but-"

"...Daenerys?"

"You know, that supposed dragon-faced girl the harkers are on about."

"_Right_. No, you're certainly no Daenerysss," she slurred, this time taking a good look at the girl's face. It might've been the effects of the alcohol, but Daenerys could _ swear _ she looked almost exactly like... Jon. Even sounded a bit like him, too. "You're beautiful. _ Beautiful!" _she shouted, grabbing the attention of everyone in their immediate vicinity.

"Are you drunk?"

"I'm drunk!"

Clearly amused with her antics, Arry hopped a few seats to sit closer to the strange girl.

"Gendry, how about another round for my friend, Eyepatch, here?"

"Comin' right up!"

** _. . ._ **

** _|Viserys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Feeling a crushing amount of guilt over both failing his sister _ and _failing to find her, Viserys shut himself away in his chamber to mope. Turning his gaze toward the window, he mouthed silent prayers to the gods to protect his sister while he couldn't—the same prayers he recited day in and day out.

When soft footsteps padded across the rug, he knew exactly who it would be and what news she'd come bearing.

"Another raven."

"I don't care," the king heaved a dramatic sigh. "What does it say?"

"Went to a brewhouse," Arianne scanned the scroll. "Had her first taste of autumn ale."

"Stop. I don't care."

"Went to the market... had lemon cakes," she continued. "Even made her first friend..."

"It's been _ weeks_," he growled. "How could she be doing all of these things without being seen? _ She can't! _ That's how!"

Sighing, Arianne walked toward her inconsolable husband, taking his hands in hers. "At least we know she's safe."

"Safe isn't good enough."

"What do you propose, instead?"

Just as he was about to tell her he hadn't had a clue—he realized Daenerys had inadvertently provided them with a pretty good one.

"What was that you said she had? Autumn ale?"

"Yes..."

Clapping his hands together, Viserys let out a wicked cackle. The king leapt to his feet, dragging his wife down the stairs to find Ser Barristan to confirm his suspicion. His favorite stories growing up had always been the adventures of the old knight and his late brother, especially the ones where they'd get horribly drunk at a certain Flea Bottom brewhouse.

"Viserys!" Arianne shouted. "What has gotten into you?"

"There is only _ one _place that sells autumn ale south of the Neck."

** _. . ._ **

** _|Daenerys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Though the Tuffleberry had quickly become one of Dany's favorite haunts—this evening she found herself tumbling through the doors not for her usual drink, but in an effort to escape her brother and his small entourage, who happened to have caught sight of her silver hair in the street.

Just inside, her dark-haired, northern friend had already been awaiting her arrival. "Good, you're here," she laughed. "It's your turn to buy."

Dany wobbled toward the bar, out of breath and gasping.

"All right, I lied. I'll buy," Arry said, helping to steady her, though her legs kept on shaking, and her head kept spinning like a wheel. Having never had the space to actually _ run _before, Daenerys was ill-equipped to deal with the consequences of even the slightest of jaunts.

Suddenly, her body went numb and she collapsed to the floor.

"Oh, my gods!"

Her new friend hit the ground, loosening Dany's clothes so she could better breathe. And as she brushed the hair from Dany's face, she unintentionally nudged the eyepatch.

"Shit!" Gendry recoiled. "Is that greyscale?"

Unable to defend herself, Arry luckily spoke up on Dany's behalf. "It can't be. They're... _ red_. The scales are red."

Daenerys felt her eyepatch dragging over her scaly skin just as her brother had burst through the door, "No... No! _ Stop! _"

"_Hey _..." Arry said, the corner of her mouth quirking up into a smile upon recognition. "It's Daenerys!"

The girl's grin was the last thing she saw before everything went black.

. . .

"She's coming out of it!"

It was a voice she didn't recognize. Followed by one she did.

"There she is!"

Her good-sister, Arianne. Lazily, Daenerys opened her eyes, surprised to see the brewhouse packed full of so many people. There had been at least two dozen pairs of stunned eyes peering back at her, including those of her family.

_ They're not running. _

"Come on, Dany," her brother took her by the arm. "Time to go _ home_."

As the king, himself, escorted the dragon girl outside, she was surprised to see an even larger crowd had formed around her brother's flashy black palanquin, so big it barely fit in the cramped streets of Flea Bottom. By now, the chatter amongst the bystanders was almost deafening.

"Daenerys! Daenerys!" they shouted.

"Is it true you were chained up in the black cells?" a woman asked.

When she turned to answer, her brother yanked her arm, warning, "_Don't _encourage them."

This time a pug-faced child approached, "Do you have any other dragon parts?"

"_No _!"

"With your dragon's blood, are you hotter than the rest of us?" a man shouted from the crowd.

"I don't know," she laughed, "You tell me!"

"_Daenerys _! There you are!"

Finally, it was the voice of someone she recognized. _ Arry_, she thought. _ Thank the gods! _

Experiencing a newfound boldness, she turned to her brother, "Viserys, can I borrow some coin? I'm running low."

"Absolutely _ not_," he scolded. "You get in that palanquin this instant."

"Vis, they want to know if you chain me up in the _ dungeon_."

"No," he forced a chuckle, finally turning to the crowd to flash a compulsory, yet kingly smile. "No, of course not!"

Soon, her brother was swallowed up by his many subjects. And from the growing horde, her good-sister stepped forward to press a kiss into her cheek, setting a small coin purse in her palm. "Good-bye, sweetling."

With her brother's blessing—albeit involuntary—Daenerys took her new friend by the hand and set out about town for the first time, as herself.

** _. . ._ **

** _|Tyrion|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Before Tyrion and his nephew could deploy their secondary plan to unveil the dragon-faced girl, she had stepped out of the shadows on her own. The dwarf had even spotted her once from his window, cushioned on all sides by a small retinue. From her left side—Daenerys was every bit a classic Valyrian beauty. Perhaps it was because he was inflicted with his own physical imperfections, but Tyrion thought the scales gave her a sense of character. Considering the girl was often ushered about by a crowd of admirers, he supposed he couldn't have been the only one with such an opinion.

In fact, he knew as much—as the chief among her admirers had come marching up to the Lannister residence with a score to settle.

Jon Snow hadn't even given Tyrion time to greet him before he thrust a bag of coins forward. "That's half of what you gave me," he barked. "You'll get the rest back when I'm ready."

"Let's just call it even."

"No, let's _ not_. In fact, I want you to leave her alone entirely. She's not what Joffrey said she was."

"I know she's not."

"Then why are you helpin' him try an' prove she's some kind of monster?"

"All I was trying to do was prove she _ existed_. Though, she's already taken care of that part for me."

His dark eyes narrowed. "She what?"

"You haven't heard? Apparently, she's out there on her own. Declaring her independence."

It was as if he could see Jon shed the weight of his worry in that moment—there was even a flicker of delight at the news.

"She is? " he breathed.

Even before she entered the room, Tyrion sensed his sister's stiff and ominous presence lurking about.

"Father wishes to speak with you."

He sighed. "I'm with someone."

Cersei gave Jon an indifferent once-over. "Are you?" She shrugged. "I couldn't tell."

Rather than allow his sister to embarrass him further, he let her slink around the corner, back whence she came.

"You know what they say. You can't choose your family."

"Go on ahead," Jon assured him with a grin. "It turns out somethin' just came up."

. . .

When Tyrion set foot in his father's solar, he wasn't surprised to see Tywin had yet to arrive. The head of House Lannister had always had a penchant for late and dramatic entrances. 

Present, though, had been his nephew—feet propped up on the table and picking at his nails with a jewel-encrusted dagger. Tyrion poured himself a goblet of wine in an effort to wash away that sinking feeling in his stomach that Joffrey had somehow dug them both into yet _ another _hole—one that he, alone, would have to formulate a way out of.

"Any idea what this little meeting is about?"

Finally, his nephew looked up. "Perhaps that you haven't held up your end of the bargain."

"And _ which _ end of _ what _bargain might that be?"

"That half the people in this city still call me mad."

Tyrion's eyes went wide. "Half the city, you say? Why, that's fantastic news!"

"In what way is that _ at all _fantastic?"

"That's considerably fewer people than I'd last heard."

"I'm _ serious_." Joffrey scoffed. "They've all seen her, yet somehow, _ I _remain the mad one!" 

"Perhaps it's your unrelenting insistence she has—oh, I don't know—_ fangs? _"

"I saw them!" he shouted. "She must just... suck them back into her skull, or something."

"Yes, that _ must _be it!" Tyrion rolled his eyes.

"All I know is... That woman—_that thing— _belongs in a cage!"

He couldn't help but glare at his nephew.

With a flourish of his golden cloak, the dwarf's lord father elegantly glided into the room and straight to the window, peering into the garden below. Something about his mere presence had always seemed to straighten Tyrion's spine—commanding he stand at attention.

"I have given you both more than enough time to fix this," he began, "And yet, all you've managed to do is make it worse."

"Worse?" Tyrion spoke up. "In what way?"

Immediately, Joffrey cowered before his grandfather. As suspected, the boy _ had _done something to inspire this dreaded meeting, after all.

"The public _ loves _ this girl," Tywin continued. "And yet, the moment your nephew is granted any sort of platform—he starts demanding the _ beast _be chained in the Dragonpit."

With the image of Daenerys fresh in his mind's eye, Tyrion set his goblet down for the express purpose of smoothing a palm over his surely mortified face. With someone like Cersei Lannister as a mother, Tyrion wondered how in the world Joffrey could conclude the _ princess _was the beast, scales or no scales.

"I will not sit idly by as the taint of madness adheres to the Lannister name."

"I don't know what you expect me to do..." the boy croaked.

"I expect this hysteria to stop this instant," Tywin ordered. "And I expect a permanent solution. You have one last chance before I cut you both off. _ One_."

"Try to remember I am your _ grandson_," Joffrey pleaded.

Performing a theatrical march toward the door, Tywin stopped just short of the exit, turning his head enough that his scathing remark would not fall on deaf ears.

"That's _ exactly _what I'm trying to forget."

Though a fan of his nephew he certainly _ wasn't_, Tyrion couldn't help but feel some measure of sympathy for the boy—having heard similar disparaging comments all throughout his life. He, of all people, knew how heartbreaking it had been to hear them from one's own flesh and blood.

After downing the rest of the wine, Tyrion used the silence to pull a solution from his freshly scattered mind.

"I know exactly how you can fix this, nephew," he offered. "And I'm afraid you won't like it one bit."

** _. . ._ **

** _|Jon|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Though over the weeks, Jon had avoided the temptation of gambling as best he could, when he passed the Tuffleberry on his way home—he just couldn't resist the pull of his favorite haunt. The curiously large crowd both in and outside the brewhouse had been the first hint—but when he saw the familiar face of an old knight, he knew for sure.

_ Daenerys_.

Once inside, she was impossible to miss—the bright silver of her hair like a lantern in the dark. Her smile, broad and genuine, had been enough to lure one to his own reluctant lips. 

Navigating the crowd of admirers, she was awkward but gracious. While the girl was smart enough not to wager her own coin away, she lent her luck to the other gamblers by blowing on their dice. He simply watched as she endured countless questions and cheers—everyone wanting a piece of her. And Jon was no different.

His opportunity had arisen when someone requested Daenerys actually toss his dice for luck. Likely having never done it before, her effort sent both die in separate directions—one thankfully rolling right toward Jon. Despite the blunder, the crowd around her roared and chanted her name.

"Sorry!" she yelped. "I'll find them!"

Quickly, Jon scrambled to retrieve the die from the black and sticky floorboards. Daenerys nearly ran into him as he held the piece out in his palm—her eyes going wide once she recognized him.

"Dany."

"Jon."

"You really did it," he couldn't help but grin. "I mean... you look great. Really happy."

"...Thanks," she said, her reply nonchalant.

"You inspired me. Doin' what you did—goin' off on your own like that," he said, working up the necessary courage to explain his regrettable rejection all those weeks ago. "I, um. l'm not who..."

"I have to go."

So desperate to get away from him, Daenerys headed straight for the door rather than the crowd of admirers at the gambling table, anxiously awaiting her return. Jon's heart shriveled in his chest, the ache of each beat so sharp it stung all over. If only she'd give him a chance to explain...

From just outside, a familiar voice called her name. "Daenerys! There you are. You must return home at once. We have the most wonderful surprise!"

Jon watched from the window as she locked arms with the strange red woman. Together, they set off toward the Red Keep. The only thing that had been more distressing than seeing Daenerys again—was seeing her walk away.

** _. . ._ **

** _|Daenerys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Unsure what, exactly, she had awaited—the _ 'surprise' _had been everything she should've expected upon returning home—and nothing at all she wanted. What she wanted was to run straight up to her room and nurse her still-broken heart. To stuff her face with lemon cakes until she forgot what his comely, brooding face even looked like.

Instead, what she got was a tone-deaf attempt at resurrecting something she had long since mourned the loss of—her old life. Returning to the scene of the crime was none other than Joffrey Baratheon, wearing an insincere smile as he sat upon the sofa in the library—just feet from where his face first twisted in horror at the mere sight of her. Even this time around, he hadn't been faring much better.

"What are _ you _doing here?"

"I'm sorry I ran from my feelings."

"Oh, is that what you were running from? Your _ feelings? _I was certain you were running from me!"

"Only my feelings _ for _you."

Daenerys inspected the boy—whose eyes always seemed to land somewhere near her, but never _ quite _on her face.

"Is this a joke?" she turned to her brother, who was positively beaming. "It's not a very good one, Vis."

"Daenerys, don't make the boy beg," he pleaded. "Look at that face! He can break the curse."

As instructed, she turned her gaze back to Joffrey—who wrenched his face into the most inhuman-looking smile she'd ever seen. It was an offer that might've sent her jumping for joy a mere month ago. But not anymore.

"But things are different now, Viserys. I..."

"She's overwhelmed," he assured Joffrey before stalking toward his unimpressed sister and dragging her just out of earshot. The gesture was rendered useless, though, as her brother had never quite mastered the art of whispering. "Why? Because the harkers praise you in the streets?"

"No. Because I have friends."

"Those aren't friends, sweet sister. Those are fans. _ 'Did you hear? The dragon speaks three languages! Oh, look, the dragon can play the fiddle!' _ You're just a talking _ dragon _ to those people! But Joffrey..." On cue, the boy in the ostentatious golden frock stood, offering a weak, perfunctory nod. "Joffrey wants to _ marry _you."

She turned away from them and glanced in the mirror upon the wall—this time feeling no urge to cover her scales. In fact, she much preferred her own face to Joffrey's—the thought of spending a lifetime looking into his vacant green eyes disheartened her. When she found herself wondering whether it would be any easier had he possessed a pair of dark eyes and a head of wild raven curls—she shook the traitorous thought away.

"Are you prepared to walk away from your one and only chance? _ Our _one and only chance at a normal life?"

Whatever progress she seemed to find out there on her own had quickly receded—as if she hadn't made any at all. Guilt washed over her, instead, knowing that Viserys was as much a prisoner to the curse as she. Perhaps she owed him this much.

"Marry me, Daenerys," Joffrey choked. "_Marry me_."

** _. . ._ **

** _|Tyrion|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Still unsure exactly how to categorize the master of whisperers—friend or foe—Tyrion granted the curiously fragrant man an audience. After all, he'd been so busy with his nephew's affairs that he'd been slacking on delivering the latest news throughout the city. Itching to get back to work, it certainly wouldn't hurt the dwarf to speak with the man who seemed to know all of the city's secrets.

"Tyrion," he greeted.

"Varys."

"I'd have sent a raven, but I couldn't risk the interception of such a message."

In an instant, Tyrion's stomach dropped—afraid that either his nephew had managed to set whatever remained of his reputation ablaze, or that he faced the inevitable confrontation regarding the true state of his family's coffers.

"You know Jon Snow."

It wasn't a question, but a statement.

"Yes..." he paused to raise a brow. "Why?"

"After years of investigation, I've finally confirmed that this Jon Snow _ is_, in fact, the rumored son of Rhaegar Targaryen."

Tyrion laughed at the absurdity, waving away the claim. "He's Ned Stark's bastard."

"No. Eddard Stark was his _ uncle_."

"Like you said, Varys. I know him. The boy looks _ exactly _like Ned."

"What of the rest of Ned's children? They look Tully through and through. All except for that little weasel girl—who also happens to favor Eddard's sister, Lyanna Stark. Just like her _ cousin_."

Tyrion's face went pale. He'd spent a fair amount of time with the Starks, as his good-brother had once arranged a betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa Stark—a promise that died with Ned. So far as Tyrion could recollect, no one knew whatever became of Lyanna Stark the eve of her wedding to the man who had wed his sister Cersei, instead.

"I don't understand," Tyrion frowned. "Are you telling me that Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped Lyanna Stark?"

"I'm telling you that Rhaegar and Lyanna were secretly wed on the same day she was supposed to wed Robert Baratheon."

"And Jon?"

"Is almost certainly _ Aegon _Targaryen."

The dwarf folded his arms. "I don't get it. Why tell me any of this? To shout it through the streets?"

"Surely not," Varys shook his head. "I happen to know you've been directly interfering with Jon Snow's attempts at courting Daenerys Targaryen."

"That's not _ exactly _what-"

"You mustn't let him fail, Tyrion."

Having just commanded that his nephew immediately propose marriage upon next seeing Daenerys, he began to sweat.

"Why should you care who Daenerys marries?"

"I serve the realm, and the realm needs peace."

"Meaning...?"

"If word of this gets out, it could throw the line of succession into question. However, there is little doubt of the king's devotion to his sister. Jon's place by her side would secure not only his safety, but that of the entire realm."

Tyrion stared stone-faced at the bald man before him, whose awful timing had been admittedly impressive.

"Can you help him, Tyrion?" Varys asked.

"I..." he hesitated. "I can try."

** _. . ._ **

** _|Jon|_ **

** _. . ._ **

As if accepting his proposal hadn't hurt enough, Daenerys entered the Tuffleberry arm-in-arm with Joffrey Baratheon. If the grimace on the boy's face was any indication, he clearly thought himself too good for the likes of the Flea Bottom brewhouse, and likely for the girl on his arm, too.

Turning away, Jon tried his best to ignore them—hoping that by chugging his autumn ale, he could dislodge the uncomfortable lump in his throat, or perhaps loosen the knot that the mere sight of her had tied within his chest.

Yet, the ale didn't help a bit. In fact, it somehow made all of his symptoms _ worse_. He knew what kind of good-for-nothing scoundrel Joffrey Baratheon was. And though Jon didn't deserve her, either, he'd be damned if he sat idly by as Daenerys risked ruining her life.

When Joffrey wandered up to the bar to grab drinks for the pair, Jon seized the opportunity.

"Let me help you with those, my lord."

"Thank you."

When Jon neglected to carry the drinks for the pompous lord as insinuated, he finally looked up. It took him a moment not just to recognize Jon, but to realize his glare must've meant trouble for him.

"Daenerys!" Joffrey shouted. "We need to leave."

"We just got here," she complained.

He pushed his way through the crowd, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her from her usual seat at the gambling table.

"But my cloak-"

"We can get you a new one."

"Is that necessary? It's just there!" she gestured toward the seat where she'd left it.

Dany's reluctance to leave gave Jon enough time to wedge himself between the pair and the only exit. Afraid to face his wrath directly, Joffrey finally let go of her arm, and when she spun, they came face to face.

"Jon," she breathed.

"Dany."

Just looking at her, the rest of the world seemed to blur and fade. The warmth there in her violet eyes even managed to melt his anger away.

Irritated with the sudden familiarity between them, Joffrey clutched his betrothed possessively, and even then, he winced as he touched her.

"We were just leaving," he said.

And in a flood, Jon's displeasure came rushing back in an instant. He would've given almost anything to _ speak _ to Daenerys, let alone _ hold _her. And there he was, the man who intended to marry her, cringing as if Daenerys were as ugly a monster as he.

"How are things, Joffrey?" Jon asked.

The boy forced a phony smile. "Ignore him," he ordered.

"I understand it got a bit _ grotesque _there for a while. Even vomit ugly."

Dany frowned. "Do you two know each other?"

"As a matter of fact, we do."

"Stop!" Joffrey shouted. "Haven't you hurt her enough?"

"Outside," Jon growled. "_Now_."

  
Unsurprisingly, Daenerys watched with morbid fascination as the two men vying for her attention shuffled outside to speak in private.

"You make me sick!" Jon spat, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

"Why? I'm giving her exactly what she wants," he boasted. "I don't see anybody else lining up to do that. Oh, unless... unless you are? Are _ you _lining up?"

"That's not the point."

"Yes, it _ is _the point!" he shrieked. "If you want to go inside and tell her that the only man willing to stand up and place a cloak over her shoulders still gags at the thought of kissing her, then be my guest. But it's not me you'll be hurting. It's her."

As if he hadn't driven the point home hard enough, Joffrey grinned, slapping Jon on the shoulder before returning to his would-be wife.

Jon's rage quickly transitioned back into anguish. Joffrey was right. There was nothing at all he had to offer Daenerys. For as certain as he had been that the Baratheon boy was bad news, there wasn't a thing he could say or do to stop the inevitable. Perhaps the least he could do is stop interfering with her life.

** _. . ._ **

** _|Tyrion|_ **

** _. . ._ **

It hadn't rained in days, yet everything in Flea Bottom always seemed to leak. Tyrion couldn't decide which was worse—the unknown substance dripping onto his head, or the unwavering essence of excrement that accompanied his every breath.

The dwellings in the rundown section of town were so cramped together that Tyrion had to knock on several doors along the row before one opened to reveal a familiar broody face.

"_Finally_," he breathed a sigh of relief.

Upon seeing the dwarf, Jon's expression drooped. "My lord," he flatly greeted. "What're you doin' here?"

"May I come inside?

"I'd like you to leave."

"There's something I need to tell you, Jon. I can't do it out here."

"I already heard. About Daenerys and..." he paused. "And..." It was as if the poor, heartbroken boy couldn't bring himself to say the name aloud.

"Daenerys and _ the Beast? _"

Jon gave a half-hearted smirk. He might've appreciated the joke had he not been awash with grief.

"Go home, Tyrion."

Sticking his hand through the open door, it caught on his arm as Jon tried to shut him out.

"Please. Just a few minutes is all I ask."

"You're lucky my sister is out with our wolves."

"_Wolves? _"

Jon merely shrugged, moving out of the way to allow him through. To his consternation, it appeared the boy and his sister had been living in relative squalor—the likes of which his cushioned life had always shielded him from. The whole of their quarters consisted of just two beds with barely enough space to step between them, and what appeared to be a small closet with a privy. It certainly wasn't Joffrey that needed that damned dowry.

"Why didn't you go for it?"

"For what?"

"The dowry."

Jon sneered, taking note of Tyrion's perturbation at the state of his surroundings.

"What does it matter? They're both gettin' what they want."

"I know what he's getting. What's _ she _getting?"

Collapsing onto his bed, Jon sighed in defeat. "The day she's waited for all her life—breakin' the curse."

"Oh," Tyrion snorted. "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

"Spend enough time around direwolves," he shrugged, "You wind up believin' all sorts of impossible things."

The longer he stood in Jon's presence, the thinner the boy's patience wore. And so, Tyrion wisely wasted no further time. "It's not too late to stop Joffrey."

"And why would I do that?"

"If getting married is all it takes to break the—_'ooh' _—curse," he mocked, "Why not you?"

"I'm not the heir to Winterfell, Tyrion. I never was. That would be my sister, Sansa. I'm no prince, no lord. I'm not even a _ Stark_. Just a bastard who needed the money so I went along with your stupid plan."

Tyrion went pale. "You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"Boy, Ned sure fooled you, Jon," he said. "Or should I say _ Aegon? _"

** _. . ._ **

** _|Arya|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Upon returning home for the night, Arya wasn't surprised to see Jon had beat her there. What had surprised her, though, was that he had gone white as snow.

"Are you sick?" she asked, holding the door open for the wolves.

He merely shook his head no.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, big brother."

"That's not far off," he admitted. "And don't call me big brother."

After locking the door behind her, she threw her hands up in sarcastic defeat, "As you command."

Ghost and Nymeria jumped onto their respective beds, dominating the available space. Jon held his grimace as Arya slipped off her boots and kicked them under the bed. For weeks, her brother had been brooding over gods only know what. Had he not been so prickly, she might've inquired. Tonight though, it was late. Rather than attempt to pry it out of him, Arya slid under her coverings and shut her eyes.

After Jon heaved a sigh so heavy and dramatic it would've woken her from a dead sleep, she relented. "All right. Talk to me. What is it?"

"Nothin'."

"Oh, no you _ don't_," she griped, turning onto her side to face him. "Either you spill whatever it is that's got you fretting, or I fetch Needle and stick you full of holes until you talk."

Jon sighed again. "Girl troubles, I suppose."

"Sorry, girl troubles? _ What _girl?"

"My aunt, apparently."

Arya gasped, pushing herself up onto her knees. "They found her? Aunt Lyanna?"

"No," Jon shook his head. "Besides, she's _ your _aunt, not mine."

"What have you been drinking, Jon?"

"I _ wish _I was drunk. Might make the truth easier to swallow."

"Tell me."

"I have it on good authority that I am the product of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen," he confessed. "Thus, Lyanna can't be my mother _ and _my aunt at the same time."

"That's ridiculous. Father went out looking for Lyanna after she disappeared. He never found her."

"He did find her—she died shortly after giving birth to me. He brought me home and lied about all of it to protect me. To protect the realm from Robert Baratheon's wrath."

"And your father?"

"Word has it he threw himself into the sea."

"Why would he do that?" asked Arya, startled.

"His heart was broken."

She frowned. Everything inside of her wanted to argue it, but all of it made perfect sense. And so, she relented. At least for now.

"I'm sorry, Jon."

Nymeria's head perked up as Arya hopped from her bed to Jon's, tucking herself into his arms the way she used to do when they were young. As he stroked her hair, she considered the tale, until a certain detail she couldn't ignore came trickling into the forefront of her mind.

"Wait."

"What?"

"You know Daenerys."

"What makes you say that?"

"Father had no other sisters. And Prince Rhaegar, well. He only had one sister, too."

When Jon neglected to answer her, Arya peered up at him, spying an expression that was a strange mixture of sorrow, guilt, and heartache.

"You're in love with her," she whispered. "But she is to wed Joffrey Baratheon."

Her brother—_cousin— _cringed with his whole body at the mere mention of the boy's name.

"_Oh_," she said, finally understanding his pain. "Well, she's not married to him yet. There's still time to tell her how you feel, Jon."

"But she's my _ aunt_," he insisted.

"So? For centuries the Targaryens have married brother to sister."

"With Daenerys," he began, "I've made more mistakes than a man should make in a lifetime. It's too late."

In all the years they'd spent together, Jon had never sounded so sad. In turn, Arya felt his sadness, too. The dragon-faced girl had already felt like a sister to her—perhaps even more than had Sansa. Arya might've only understood a small fraction of her brother's pain, but she easily shared in it, feeling a sense of loss all the same.

** _. . ._ **

** _|Tyrion|_ **

** _. . ._ **

The Great Sept of Baelor was filling up fast. Though Tyrion scanned the crowd a dozen times over, Jon—or _ Aegon— _had been nowhere to be found.

"Mother, I think I might throw up," Joffrey confessed as she fussed with his wedding attire, smoothing a palm over every last wrinkle. 

Cersei, though likewise displeased with the physical appearance of her good-daughter, happily accepted the match on behalf of her son as it would make a nice dent in their family's recent financial woe.

"Just remember, my darling boy—a few moments from now the curse will be broken."

"There _ is _no curse!" he shouted, tugging at his stiff collar. "The only one cursed here is me!"

His nephew's irrational disdain for the princess roused Tyrion to his feet. There were a few minutes left before vows were promised and cloaks were exchanged in the sight of gods and men—and he ought to use them wisely.

. . .

Being kin to the groom, alone, was enough to grant Tyrion a private audience with the king. Though, Viserys made it clear his patience was in limited supply.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, I-" Tyrion stammered.

"You _ what? _"

"First, I wanted to apologize."

"Apology not accepted."

The dwarf tilted his head in disbelief, the king's shortness leaving him at a sudden loss for words.

"What? You're wasting my time!" Viserys shouted, gesturing toward the aisle that led to the altar. "I have a wedding to attend!"

"The only reason Jon Snow wouldn't marry your sister is because he's a bastard," Tyrion quickly spat. "Winterfell was never his to inherit."

Unenthused by the confession, he folded his arms. "Will that be all, _ my lord? _"

Luckily, the king's outburst had caught the attention of his dutiful Dornish wife, who hobbled over to get a better listen.

"Jon Snow only said no to Daenerys because he can't break the curse."

"He _ what _?" Arianne's queenly smile fell as she processed the news. 

"The boy is little more than a pauper. That's why he agreed to work for me," he explained. "He badly needed the coin for his family back home."

After a beat, she turned to her husband, jabbing a finger into his chest angrily. "I _ told _you not to rush the wedding!"

Exasperated, Viserys looked down at her finger before batting it away. "This changes nothing."

"How can you say that, my love? Not only was Joffrey part of it, but-"

"We have the power to break the curse _ today_," he reminded her. "Joffrey Baratheon is standing beneath the Mother and Father waiting to marry my sister and I will not hear another word against it!"

"Don't you think Daenerys is at _ least _entitled to know?" Arianne demanded.

"Know what? That Jon lied about everything?"

"If all he had wanted was the money, he could've married her anyway. But he didn't."

"He loves her, Your Grace," Tyrion confirmed.

"I don't know that. You don't know that. But even if that's true, gods bless him! He did the right thing!"

Arianne opened her mouth to argue, "But-"

"Leave it _ alone_."

Delivering a dirty look first to Tyrion and then to his wife, the king made his way down the aisle to retrieve his sister for the ceremony. The queen's eyes swam as she watched her husband walk away—too fat with child, now, to chase after him. Though, it was apparent that her good-sister meant a great deal to her.

"For as long as I've known him," she sniffled, wiping her tears away. "He was afraid of failing her. Now look what he's done."

** _. . ._ **

** _|Daenerys|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Before she knew it, Daenerys was arm-in-arm with her brother, headed toward the altar. It felt more like a funeral than a wedding. Her husband-to-be stood beside the septon, looking every bit as horrified as she felt. Even the looming statues of the Mother and Father seemed to mock her, as had the grimaces of the many spectators who had come to see the royal event.

Mocking her further was the soft strumming of the harps that accompanied every chanted prayer. Against her better judgment, she recalled the memory of what it felt like to hold Jon's hand—the way his thumb brushed against her palm, and the harmony of their voices as they sang together over her late brother's woodharp. Her mind even began painting Jon's face in place of Joffrey's, leaving her to wonder what it might feel like to marry by _ choice _ rather than for duty. _ Not that Jon would've wanted to, anyway_, she reminded herself.

Wading through the dreamlike sequence of events, Daenerys went through the motions—letting her brother remove her maiden's cloak before Joffrey replaced it with his own. Finally, she turned to face the repugnant boy to finish out their vows.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Joffrey glowered, mumbling, "And take you for my lady and wife."

After a long moment of silence, her brother nudged her arm. "Your turn, sweetling," he quietly reminded her.

"Daenerys?" the septon asked.

"_With this kiss I pledge my love_," Viserys whispered from beside her.

Taking one last look at her betrothed, she shook her head.

"No."

Turning on her heel, Daenerys ran. The ivory samite of her wedding dress slipped right through her brother's fingers as he tried to stop her.

"Nobody move! She's fine!" he shouted. "Daenerys, wait!"

But she kept on running. And running. She passed straight through the Hall of Lamps, pushing her way through the last of the crowd. And she didn't stop until she was outside and gasping in the fresh air. Had she stayed in the sept even a moment longer, she was certain she would have suffocated.

Unsurprisingly, her brother eventually caught up to her.

"Look at me," she demanded of him.

Winded, he assured her, "I am." Though, his eyes landed anywhere but on hers—_or _her unsightly scales. "What is it, Dany?"

"No!" she shouted. "_Look _at me!"

"I am!" he cried. "I don't understand what you want."

"Of course you don't," her voice shook. "You never have!"

Grabbing hold of her arm, he tried tugging her back into the damned sept. "Daenerys, it's not too late."

"Stop it, Viserys. It's _ over_."

"Sweetling, just think about what you're doing! This is the moment we have worked so hard for!"

With all her might she yanked her arm from his grasp, "I said _ stop! _"

"Dany, _ please! _" he begged, more desperate now than she'd ever heard him before. Unable to bring herself to look upon the man who had raised her, she turned away from his pleas.

"We are _ one _'yes' away from a whole new life," he placed a hand upon her shoulder. "A whole new you."

Daenerys took a step forward, away from her brother. With one swift motion, she untied the string around her neck, shedding the black and gold cloak as it fluttered to her feet. 

"But that's just it, Vis. I don't want a whole new me."

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she turned her gaze to the horizon, spotting the outline of the tower in which he kept her imprisoned her whole life. 

"I like myself the way I am."

When she wiped the tears from her cheek, she felt nothing but smooth skin. _ What? _ Assuming herself mad, she brushed her face again. _ Smooth_. She touched her cheeks—one after the other, then both at once to confirm it.

"Viserys?" her voice wobbled as she turned.

The moment her brother took in the sight of her new face, he let out a wail of relief, rushing to scoop her up in his arms. Together they held each other and laughed, Viserys spinning her around so fast her skirts picked up in the rush of it, billowing all around them.

. . .

Upon arriving home, Daenerys changed out of her wedding gown and back into her favorite violet dress. Since then, she had been all but glued to the mirror in the library, studying her new face, still unsure what, exactly, to make of it.

"They're not going to grow back," Viserys suddenly said, startling her.

"What makes you think I-"

"I miss them too," he confessed. "And then I remember you're still you."

Daenerys absently nodded, still trying to process the last few hours of her life.

"Oh, Dany," her brother's eyes began to water, his features etched with guilt. "_'The prince that was promised' _ I didn't know that _ you _could..." he paused, "I just assumed that-"

"We all did, Vis."

"No, sweetling, _ no_," he insisted. "I could have broken the curse years ago if I'd just done my job as your brother and loved you as my own."

"You didn't know." Dany wrapped her arms around him, rubbing his back as she assured him again, "You didn't know."

She felt bad for her brother that day, having to cope with so many changes all at once. In a few short weeks alone, she had outgrown her tower. And while a part of her would always miss the face that had caused so much trouble, Daenerys knew it was time. Not just time to say good-bye to her old face and her old life—but time to follow her heart, for once.

** _. . ._ **

** _|Joffrey|_ **

** _. . ._ **

It was late when the package came to his desk, the parchment wet with raindrops. The rider assured the steward that it had come from Princess Daenerys, herself. Joffrey had never expected to hear from her again.

After tearing the wrapping away, he recognized the gold velvet with black embellishments instantly—the wedding cloak of his father's house colors, neatly folded. Underneath it, he found a scroll.

By candlelight, he read her words:

_ Joffrey— _

_ That first day in the library, you said that you, too, have felt imprisoned most of your life. Looking back, I now believe you were speaking from your heart. I fear I did you a terrible disservice that day. I knew you would run. I wanted you to. But perhaps had I taken the time to really listen to you, maybe we could have helped each other find our way. For that, I am sorry. I hope this letter and this cloak find you well. _

_ —Daenerys _

The letter gave him a strange sense of calm, of relief.

"Joffrey!" his mother cried in the distance. "Your grandfather wishes to speak with you."

Choosing to ignore the call, he stroked the velvet—wondering whether or not he'd made a mistake in letting Daenerys run from the altar that day.

** _. . ._ **

** _|Jon|_ **

** _. . ._ **

Just outside the King's Gate, King Viserys had erected a temporary grand ballroom on the tourney grounds, in celebration of the birth of his first son, Mors Targaryen. The news came shortly after word that Daenerys had run from the altar on her wedding day, refusing to pledge herself to Joffrey Baratheon. Though in his heart, he felt some measure of relief—Jon hadn't heard a peep out of her, or any _ about _her, since. The new prince's arrival had overshadowed the dragon-faced girl's short stint into prominence, it seemed. And though Jon had lacked the courage to crash her wedding, not a day went by he didn't regret it.

Stepping away from the dicing tables and into the musician's gallery, Jon had finally managed to turn an old hobby into income—meager, yet reliable. At his sister's nagging insistence, he agreed to take a job at the upcoming celebratory masque—giving up two nights in exchange for a rather generous salary.

After a quick trip to the bathhouse, Jon had arrived early—the tourney grounds already bustling. Spanning the exterior walls were banner after banner, graced by the house sigils of both Targaryen and Martell. Outside, there was a throng of fancifully-dressed mummers and dancers draped in red silks practicing spins and swirls. Finally, Jon had spotted his fellow bards and minstrels, seamlessly falling in line and following them inside.

Jon kept to himself that night, though in the cramped gallery, it wasn't hard to do. Quietly, he strummed a continuous loop of love songs to aid the Dornish dancers, taking occasional breaks for the mummer's performances. From where he sat, he stole periodic glances at the king and queen, that he might spot their sister.

He saw Daenerys, all right. All two dozen of her. Pale-skinned and pale-haired Lysene masquers lurked below, weaving in and out of the crowd with red dragon masks fastened to their faces, as if there to personally taunt him. It was a spectacle he could only endure so much of. And so, after an hour or two of keeping his head down, Jon excused himself, in desperate need of a break and some fresh air.

To his chagrin, he had managed to catch the attention of one of the masquers on his way to the exit. Perhaps his garish bard's attire gave the false impression he was someone important.

"Leaving so soon?"

Jon turned, heart pounding against his ribs at the sight of the woman before him—haunting violet eyes peeking out from behind her false face. "Sorry?"

"Why aren't you in there enjoying the masque?"

"Need some air," he politely answered, backing away from her. Nevertheless, she pursued him.

Outside, the wind carried a chill that had him shivering in his silk and wishing for his leathers, instead.

"Don't like the crowds?"

Now that they were out of the ruckus, he thought she even sounded a bit like... _ No_.

"Or is it the pageantry?" she pushed, taking another step toward him. It was then that her scent had struck him.

_ Lemons_.

_ Roses_.

"Take off the mask."

The woman seemed suddenly disconcerted. "What?"

Averting his gaze, Jon cleared his throat to explain. "All night it seems everywhere I look... I see someone I used to know," he confessed. "Sorry. It's ridiculous."

"This someone... she meant a lot to you?"

"Aye," he whispered. "She did."

"What happened?"

"I didn't think I could give her what she wanted."

"What did she want?"

The pain of his heartache still coursed freshly through his veins. Eyes turning glassy, he met her gaze and whispered, "To be free."

While Jon studied her face in the darkness, it wasn't until another gust of wind sent strands of silver fluttering over her cheek that his suspicion was confirmed. Blue-tinged fingertips brushed the hair away.

Every last ounce of his bravery came rushing to him all at once as he grabbed a hold of her waist, pulling her body against his. Though she gasped at the suddenness, their mouths met without hesitation—her lips as soft as the petals of her winter roses. His hand traveled the curve of her spine before burrowing straight into her mess of silver curls. Rapid heartbeat leaving him dizzy and short of breath, Jon tore himself from her mouth. A small voice in his head drew him out of the moment, demanding he confess before it went any further.

"Dany," he mumbled the name against her lips, reluctantly pulling away to apologize. "I'm sorry. I'm _ so _sorry."

"I know."

"I needed the money for my family. That's the _ only _reason I agreed to do it."

"I know."

"There's somethin' else I need to tell you-"

"I already know."

"_No_, Dany. Listen to me," he pressed. "If you'll still have me, I- I think I can break the curse, after all."

"That's okay," she smiled, untying the strings at the back of her head and pulling the dragon mask away from her face. "Turns out I could break it, myself."

On instinct, Jon recoiled—the face peering back hadn't been the same one he'd fallen for-

"It's me, Aegon."

-but it was still Dany's face, and she was every bit as beautiful as before.

"The name's still Jon," he grinned.

"_Right_. Jon," she nodded. "And I'm still me."

Lifting his hand, he traced the ridge of her brow before curling a thumb over her cheekbone, examining the smooth skin where her spikes used to be. Looking into her eyes, it was as if he could see all the barriers between them fall away—curses, lies, secrets, silk curtains. Unable to help himself, he pulled her into another tight embrace. Dany had spent all her days convinced she was unlovable, and so long as she'd have him, Jon couldn't wait to spend the rest of his days proving otherwise.

** _. . ._ **

** _[Seven years later]_ **

** _. . ._ **

"And we lived happily ever after," Daenerys concluded, pushing the dark curls from her nephew's eyes. "_Well_. Happily ever after so far, at least."

It was that stormy night she found out he was a light sleeper. Though she had been born in one, the storm that raged outside Dragonstone that night had managed to frighten even Daenerys.

"I don't get it," Mors said after a moment, curls falling right back over his face as he looked up at her in confusion. "What does it mean?"

She had just finished recounting the story of her life—the dragon-faced girl locked away in the tower, and how she spent her life looking for outside acceptance when, all along, all she needed was her own.

"Well, what do you think it means?"

As he considered, Daenerys stole a glance at her husband, three heads down. Between them sat her nephew, Mors, who they had promised to look after while his parents toured the seven kingdoms on royal progress, as well as their son, Rhaegar, the spitting image of Jon, save for his pale hair. And taking up every remaining inch of their bed was their loyal protector, Ghost. Outside, though the thunder still rolled, the rain had finally begun to die down.

"It's not the power of the curse, it's the power you _ give _the curse."

She and Jon exchanged surprised looks before turning their gazes on their son.

"That's very good, Rhaegar," Jon said, mussing up his head of silver-blonde curls.

At just five, he was as precocious as the man he was named for—though, in fairness, he'd heard the story several times more than had Mors.

"All right, time for sleep."

"_Aww_," Mors complained, though Rhaegar had already snuggled up against his father.

Dany kissed her nephew's forehead, tucking him safely in beside her. Across the bed, Jon's eyes fell closed, the muscles in his face relaxing as he drifted to sleep. Now that his family back at Winterfell had been well taken care of, her husband slept like the dead.

Sinking into her pillows, a sudden itch on her brow thwarted her attempt to fall asleep. She scratched the smooth skin, half-expecting to feel spikes and scales. It was a change she was still getting used to, all these years later. Though, making the adjustment easier each day were the ways Jon and Rhaegar lit up whenever they looked upon her face—and so long as she had their smiles, she knew she wouldn't change it for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! ♥


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